


Steve-ism

by lllsssr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:44:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9874109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lllsssr/pseuds/lllsssr
Summary: Scott was never one for church, but if he had any kind of religion, it was Steve-ism.***In the wake of Civil War, Scott asks Steve for life advice, but doesn't get the answers he hoped for.





	

            Scott was never one for church. The old hens slapped his hands when he tried lifting twenties from the collection plate.

            That was years ago.

            Years earlier, as a kid, he grew up glued to the tiny, snarling, bunny-eared TV in his living room, watching a cartoon version of Captain America hurdle train cars, crack Nazis’ jaws, stomp out forest fires.

            If he had any kind of religion, it was Steve-ism.

            He wandered into the common area of their Wakandan asylee compound, where the flesh-and-blood messiah sat on the long, sand-colored couch, squinting into a book about McCarthyism. The cover was Communist-red, the same tint as the star on his friend’s old metal arm.

            “Mind if I sit down?” Scott asked.

            Steve grunted, didn’t look up.

            The following silence was so chilly, Scott considered opening curtains to let the African afternoon sun spill in, but stayed seated in his leathery pothole of a cushion.

            Anyone could tell they weren’t close buddies—in fact, sometimes it seemed like Steve avoided Scott because of the awkwardness he carried with him. But he couldn’t help it—Steve was a celebrity, raised from the dead, and the epitome of good guy-ness. All the bad parts of Scott were attracted to that like iron shavings to a magnet.

            Scott cleared his throat. “I ever tell you the story of how I ended up here?”

            “I think I was present for most of it,” Steve muttered, still not looking up from the page.

            “No, no—not ‘here’ as in Wakanda. ‘Here’ as in with the Avengers.”

            “Not the Avengers anymore,” Steve corrected.

            The silence frosted over again.

            “Anyway,” Scott continued. “So, I had just finished off my sentence. Was building my life back up, like a good life-builder-guy. Got a job at an ice cream shop. Ruined that. Was looking for a new job. Visiting my daughter.”

            Steve continued to read.

            “And then I break into Pym’s house and find this suit and steal it and… and…”

            He paused to see if Steve would notice. A whole minute passed.

            Steve scratched his nose.

            Scott dropped the story, sighed, and grabbed the remote. “You mind if I turn on the TV?”

            Steve shook his head. “Just not too loud.”

            The news cracked onto the screen. A woman stood outside a bank, with a policeman, talking over a recent robbery.

            _Old memories_ , Scott thought.

            “Y’know,” he said, “I used to watch lots of TV when I was a kid. My gram-gram always said it would melt my brain.”

            No comment from Steve.

            “I watched a lot of your cartoons. You ever see those?”

            “Yeah,” Steve said, curling his nose. “Stark showed me.”

            “I thought they were pretty good,” Scott said.

            Steve flipped a page, and the conversation evaporated once again.

            Scott felt something like desperation squeeze his heart like a big, dirty hand inside his rib cage.

            “Talk to me,” he said. “Just, like, talk to me. Please.”

            Steve finally glanced up.

            Scott dropped his eyes to his lap, staring at his hands. “I just need to talk things over. My life. I want to be a good guy, you know? But it’s hard to adjust—hard to know when I’m doing the right thing versus the selfish thing.” He glanced at Steve. “We were all in a giant, floating prison a few weeks ago for helping you. But it was for doing the right thing. You can go to prison for good deeds. They don’t teach you that stuff in public school.”

            Steve stared.

            “I just, like, need a review on the things I’ve done. Like that—“ He opened his hand to the TV, where the reporter was now prodding a bank teller for his emotional reaction during the robbery.

            Scott had robbed someone to make the money to earn his daughter back into his life. Was that the right thing?

            “That?” Steve said.

            Steve watched the TV, looked back at Scott and narrowed his eyes.

            “You did that?” he clarified. “Robbed that bank?” He put down his book.

            The not listening thing hadn’t been an act. Steve really didn’t seem to know what was going on. He seemed to recall scraps of what Scott had said and stitched them together into a crooked patchwork of understanding. He seemed to actually think Scott had filched that bank on TV during his heaps of free time here in Wakanda.

            Scott opened his mouth to clarify, but froze. He finally had Steve’s eyes on him, his body facing him, leaning forward—his attention.

            “Y-yes,” he stuttered. “I did. Robbed that bank.”

             He felt sweaty, lying to Captain America. Like he might faint. But it was a lie he could use.

            “Yep. Robbed the hell out of it,” he said. “I needed the money… to get an apartment back in America… and see my daughter…?”

            He disguised the boring story as this one, the one that had Steve’s attention. He could clean up the details later.

            “Is that a bad thing?” he continued. “I just didn’t—don’t—want her to grow up without me in her life. Without a dad.”

            Steve was quiet.

            “Well?” Scott pushed. “Should I, like, turn myself in for that?”

            Steve just stared, then blinked. Then, somehow, his genetically youthful eyes deepened into a look that was exhausted and old. He looked like a dad at the end of his rope. Scott knew that look.

            Steve rested his hand on Scott’s shoulder and squeezed.

            “I can’t handle more of this kind of stuff. Not right now,” Steve said. “You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”

            He pushed off the couch and carried his book down the hall, into his bedroom. The door clicked shut.

            Scott stared at the empty hallway, where some of the doors stood open, others closed.

            Maybe Scott was a believer in Steve-ism, but it looked like Steve himself was agnostic.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave a comment if you liked.


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